The Lilac Sapling
by lena1987
Summary: Complete. Hermione Snape falls in love with her husband, loses him to her mind, and then falls in love with him all over again. Marriage Law. Companion piece to 'The Lilac Tree', written for the 300th reviewer orlando-switch. HG/SS.
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N:_** _This is a companion piece to The Lilac Tree, written for the 300_ _th_ _reviewer, Orlando-switch, who wished to see a progression of Hermione's feelings and how she came to recognise her love for Severus. It is six parts in total, from Hermione's point of view, and it relies heavily on the reader already understanding the events of the main story. We're going to jump right in, so if you need a refresher, begin with reading through the flashbacks in TLT._

 _I have intentionally ended this at her realisation, as Severus' version of events is the principle tale._

 _Please take the time to read The Lilac Tree first, otherwise this will_ _not_ _make sense. I've split it into 2 chapters due to its length – will pop the second chapter up this week._

 _Thank you to Banglabou for taking Snape's red ink to this and making it presentable!_

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* * *

 **The Lilac Sapling**

 **Part One: Marriage**

The list that I am presented with is mediocre at best. My nose wrinkles and I look up at the Headmaster incredulously.

"Professor Dumbledore…" How can I express it? How can I reject these men, when I am already beholden to them in some way for offering for me? For giving me the chance to avoid a more… undesirable arrangement?

The Headmaster says nothing, and I exhale instead of giving into the temptation that is rolling my eyes. One would think the wizard sees no travesty at all in such proceedings, for all he is twinkling and unwrapping sweets! Honestly!

 _Ronald Weasley, Remus Lupin, Harry Potter, Kingsley Shacklebolt…_

All Order men, then. With the exception of Ron and Harry who are still underage.

"You could enter into a binding betrothal," Professor Dumbledore remarks lightly. "But of course that is not to say that such a betrothal would be recognised if circumstances were to change…"

It is the first time I am seeing his manipulations for what they are, and it robs me of breath. How dare he!

Though, to be fair, my indignation is perhaps not as fierce as it could be… Lord knows that I would prefer Kingsley over Harry or Ron, any damn day of the week. Remus I could not stand – the man is too polite, too wishy-washy. I would walk over him without intending to, and then spend most days feeling guilty for it.

No.

"There _is_ another option…" The Headmaster trails off.

I check the list again, confused. "But, Professor Dumbledore, there are only four names here – there's no one – _oh._ "

There he is.

And my choice is made.

There is no doubt in it; none at all.

I set my shoulders and take a deep breath in. "I want him."

If the Headmaster is surprised by the direct manner of which I have claimed this man, he says nothing. I myself am a little rankled… I am fascinated with this man, yes. But to want him is another story, is it not?

A forbidden story.

No matter.

"I want him," I repeat.

Albus Dumbledore strokes his beard pensively and looks at me from over his spectacles. His eyes inspect my form, clad in the standard issue robes and uniform. There is nothing inappropriate about his assessing gaze; rather I think he is sizing me up. Trying me on for size; checking whether I have some form of hidden ways to beguile a man that is as buttoned up as his chosen attire. Strangely, it endears the Headmaster to me; he cares about the man I have selected, that much is obvious. _Old, meddling bastard._ The thought comes as a shock and it must have been projected in the cock of my eyebrow because the wrinkled wizard suddenly chortles and shakes his head.

"You want him?" he confirms, shuffling random papers. "Truly, Miss Granger?"

For his benefit only, I pretend to take a moment to think on it. Do I want him? Ha! An inane question if ever there was one. Better that I demand a witch who would _refuse._ Surely such a find would be impossible! That being said, my rose-coloured glasses are firmly in place for this particular man… It is my good fortune that I am being offered him while he is still available, anyway.

Far be it from me to waste such an opportunity.

There is a small niggling in my mind that presents itself at this point: I see him as the only realistic choice – my _best_ choice.

Will he see me this way? It goes without saying that he would have had to marry at some point in the future – the Law is purely for protecting (read: controlling) the Muggleborns now, but it's plain as day that it will continue on to the rest of the population at some point. These things have a way of doing so.

Will the man that I have chosen accept me as his match? Me – a seventeen year old schoolgirl, whose breasts have only recently budded, whose frame is still as boyish as they come? Me, when he could surely have his pick of composed Slytherins? His pick of women grown?

But I am determined. I will see this through.

There is no one who will take to this task the way I will, I decide.

I will be the best damn wife that this farce of a Law will ever see.

I stare at the Headmaster and nod, a small smile on my mouth. "Truly, yes. I want him, above all the others."

…

We are married in the Headmaster's office only a few days later. I wear denim and a dark blue cardigan; the groom is in black. He is awkward and shy. When we exchange rings, his long, pale fingers fumble to push the golden band onto my ring finger. His mouth is compressed into a thin line yet he, too, is determined. I can see it in the firm set of his brow, the serious way he watches me as I recite the vows.

We are both unsettled. But when a golden light surrounds our clasped hands and the deed is done, he holds onto my smaller ones for just a second longer, and squeezes in reassurance.

I look up at him and smile as faintly as I dare. There is no use in declaring that I am already far more emotionally invested in this than he could ever be.

He bows his head and offers me his arm as we prepare to leave the office.

I take it, and wonder if I should feel regret for choosing him, for allowing this to be forced upon him.

And yet, as I examine his finely cut trousers and frock coat, I rather think that I, Hermione _Snape,_ may just be the luckiest woman alive in Magical England today.

* * *

 **Part Two: Strange Relations**

I have been selfish.

I _am_ selfish. Nay – _we_ are selfish.

Both the Professor and I have been lumped together in this bumping, uncomfortable thestral ride of a marriage. By all rights, we should be ranting and raving; we should be fire and rage. Our chambers – or rather, _his_ sitting room – should need the strongest silencing charms that exist so our shouts and indignant bellows remain unheard by the rest of the castle.

Both of us, then (I feel that I can add the Professor into this, as strange as it may seem) have been enjoying this far more than should be prudent.

Perchance enjoyment is not the correct word…

I do not _enjoy_ being ordered to marry, and I certainly do not _enjoy_ being shunted into a marriage like chattel. Professor Snape, I am sure, would vehemently oppose such a word, were it to be applied to his own situation. His glower comes so naturally in public that I must assume that it is, in all honesty, his natural disposition, considering how he frowns so often in private.

But I enjoy _him._

In fact, my enjoyment almost feels a little like…

No.

 _I shan't say it. I shan't even think it._

I set my quill down firmly on the desk and shake my head. One low whisper has the words on the parchment before me erased, never to be seen again. It goes without saying that the secrets of the Snape marriage must remain between the two of us; I expect that, if word were to reach certain ears of how this was not such a trial after all, it would not end well for Severus.

 _Severus._

Even to think of him in this way, with his name, is a transgression. For how am I to stop myself from saying it out loud when we are alone together? How am I to restrain my tongue from the temptation of such languid syllables?

Silently, my lips form the words. No one will see; I am tucked into a chair that resides deep in the bowels of the library. No one will know. Still, I glance around furtively and raise a book to cover my face.

I wet my lips, and concentrate.

 _"_ _Severus."_

…

"Oi, 'Mione!"

 _Damn and bloody buggeration!_ This, of course, brings me up short far quicker than Ron's too-loud holler. Even the Professor's mannerisms are rubbing off…

"Yes, Ron?" _What now, Ron? Must I write the essay, too? Must I force feed you more so than I already_ do _?_

He bows comically, and thrusts out a hand to take my bag. I move it onto my other shoulder by way of declining.

"Don't be like that, 'Mione!"

I despise this ' _Mione._ Who is this 'one'? Because Ron seems to spend an awful amount of time on the 'mi' whenever he parrots the atrocious nickname. 'Mi', or ' _my_ ' 'one' definitely does not apply to _me._

I am not _his_.

If I am anyone's at all, then I am—

No.

"I'm not being _like anything_ ," I mutter, eyes fixed on the door of the Charms classroom that we are fast approaching.

"You are!" he whines. He isn't whining, not really – despite our differences and his overwhelming brashness, Ron is becoming too mature to whine. But unfortunately, he has pushed me into a damn snit and so whining it is. "Look, I said I'm sorry!"

"Insinuating that I am offering up sexual bribes to a _Professor_ in this _school_ is not something I take lightly, Ronald. In fact," I say firmly, instantly and gratifyingly recalling the affirmations that my mother has stuck on our bathroom mirror, "I do not accept your apology – and I won't accept it, until you mean it. And," I add for good measure, revelling in his wince, "if you ever say it to me again, I will make _sure_ that _Marietta's_ forehead looks a pretty picture compared to _yours_!"

There. I've done it now. He blinks, stunned, and I stumble into the classroom, the guilt twisting in my stomach.

Who is this woman?

I sink down heavily into my seat, ignoring the way the rest of the class titters and whispers. I have always known that this less than desirable person simmers under my surface – I have just named the main example in my verbal tirade to Ron, after all – but to be reminded of it is… disconcerting.

Professor Snape said last week that he believes that we are not as unalike as we may have initially thought.

He is wrong.

Surely, I am far worse.

…

Severus Snape knows everything. How?

An hour ago I entered his quarters and headed straight for the stairs to my room. He was at his personal writing desk, and when I reached my door, he called out, "Well done, wife."

"What for?" I asked, turning to him with a small frown. "Did you see my—"

"I am not speaking about an assignment," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I am speaking of, _heh—_ " he cleared his throat loudly, "—the incident with Weasley. Well done."

"For threatening him with physical harm? I sounded like a monster," I mumbled morosely. "It was out of line."

He shrugged. "If you think so."

Unable to answer coherently, I waved feebly and left.

…

My husband's elf Tink rescues me from maudlin thoughts just a few hours later.

"Mistress?" he says quietly, having appeared with a faint crack at my elbow. I am reading in bed; there is only a short staircase separating the Snapes on this night.

"Yes?" I summon a bookmark and close the tome. "Is everything all right?"

"Master is all right," the elf replies quickly, the words almost blurring together. I nod slowly, not at all sure of what I should be doing now. Thankfully, Tink manages to find some momentum, for he clicks his fingers and sets a tea tray on the bedside table. I sigh with relief at the sight of the chocolate squares.

"Oh," I breathe reverently, "how did you _know?_ Thank you, Tink!"

He claps his hands and waggles his ears. "Oh," he says giddily, "Tink doesn't know! Master is telling Tink to make sure that Mistress is comfortable."

"Did he _really_?"

Tink forgets himself. "Yes! Master is confiding to Tink that mayhap it is Mistress' _special monthly visitor_ that is making her sad upstairs!"

It is only his sudden shriek of comprehension that he has disclosed something, followed by my mad dash to his side to stop him from trying to stamp on his own ears, that saves me from dissolving into peals of laughter.

Later, I write a short note to Ron – a peace offering, for Harry's sake. And for mine, in a way – despite intentions, I have damaged Marietta beyond repair and I do not wish the same for Ron. This thought creates more moroseness; why should Ron, whose sexist petulance has driven me up the wall, be any more deserving of clear skin than Marietta?

I wince, and exhale slowly. All of a sudden, I feel too small for this world – this world where hexes mar a girl unless her true feelings change; this world where blood matters more than intelligence, though we all bleed red; and, above all, this world where my Professor and I are married off like a bad fairy tale from the Dark Ages.

And I think of him, of the Professor, downstairs in his sitting room. He will still be at his desk, marking assignments, completing correspondence. He will stay there, if my guess is correct, until late into the night. Sometimes I depart in the morning and see him still at his desk, still writing, his shirtsleeves crumpled and his frown so deep that the lines on his forehead remind me of thick scars.

This man has made me his priority – he cares for my welfare; he has been a constant man. My lips form a smile as I remember the incident that Ron and I are so at odds over, when he tossed that insinuation out into the air without a care for me or anyone that heard it.

My Professor heard it.

He bore down upon us – my romantic mind wishes to term him an avenging angel, but he is more like a cumulonimbus **–** and sneered, coming to my defence so quickly and so fiercely that I knew it was an instinctive gesture.

Afterwards, I argued with him for the sake of it, hoping to assert my independence, the need to fight my own battles. I busied my hands with preparing tea, breaking off pieces of chocolate into the just the right size, all to avoid letting him see how my fingers shook. He seemed to think he was being my champion, and while I rejected the idea with my words, inside my mind… Oh, but he was everything I had ever wished for! And what a twist of the knife that was! That I should come to see the true nature of this man, knowing all the while that he could never return my affections.

On the bed, I close my eyes, remembering the way his baritone, smooth-as-ice voice danced over the words: _'Let me protect you._ '

I was disarmed. His eyes, so earnest and yet timid, measured my reaction; I watched as they widened, as if he were unsure of what to make of my gaping mouth, flushed cheeks and pounding heart.

He left me soon after, which was surely for the best…

Another note sits completed on my desk for a long time, before I send it into the fire to burn. It is a note to my husband, and to myself; it is a note to examine whether or not I have lost my heart. And if I have, then I should think it wise to find out just when it left my chest for his.

What is this fledging gentleness that lies between us?

I fall asleep with a hesitant smile, picturing possibilities.

* * *

 **Part Three: Borrowed Time**

We are out of time.

I feel the loss of him keenly – he stands before me still, his face inches from mine, but I know his mind has left this room.

Who is he thinking of? What has his attention now, at the very turn of the tide?

Flitwick lies on the floor, stunned, and Luna is somewhere here, for once in her life employing tact to give us this moment.

"You will be safe. You _will be_ safe," I tell him fiercely, trying to pour strength I do not have into him. He _must_ be safe. Gods, I cannot – I _will_ not – think of him fighting. He is matchless in his power, and yet the risk… Oh, but I am selfish! Instantly I realise that if I could, I would flee with him _now._

He returns from wherever his mind led him, and his eyes burn into mine. Black orbs dash over my face, branding each sliver of flesh with a sensation that I cannot decipher. He agrees – though I suspect it is only so I will let him go – and kisses my forehead. And then he is gone from me, striding off with robes whipping out behind him.

Hours later in the Hospital Wing, I moan from disgust; it is inconceivable to me that the lips that were pressed so tenderly to my forehead were used to utter such a destructive curse.

I leave Harry, Ron and Ginny on one of the beds. They are huddled together. No one notices me leave; this is good, for I am determined not to stain them with this sickness. And surely it _must_ be a sickness – that I should mourn the lips of my Professor, more so than I do his victim.

…

The days in the tent are endless. They go on and on with only small moments of reprieve: a clandestine trip to source food; reading a book that I'd half forgotten, and miraculously it seems new again; moments when Harry and I manage to ignore the permeating hopelessness and actually talk.

Severus is everywhere. I have stopped calling him My Professor – in this tent, in this dreamland, he is Severus. For I fear that if I allow myself to believe in the vitriol, that he truly _is_ lost to me, then I shall go mad.

For a man that I only truly conversed with a number of times, I miss him. I feel the loss of him like a constant ache.

I toss and turn in bed, unable to sleep; instead my fingers tingle as I remember the silken strands of black hair that my nails scratched through to ease his headaches. I hear his voice, always so soft and smooth, uttering ' _wife_ ' as I take watch in the mornings. I see his face, eyes flashing and proud, when I stare into the conjured mirror every few days and attempt to make some sense out of my hair. I recall when I foolishly asked if he'd ever been married or even _in love_ ; I'd felt like a child as the words slipped from my lips, yet he'd answered without giving the question any real weight at all.

He'd shared with me, and I am sure that no one else has ever heard such an admission.

Why did I ask him? I do not know the answer… I'd set out wondering whether he'd ever clasped hands with a woman. Innocent enough, I suppose, yet as soon as he'd laughed it off, I had to know if that was truly _it._ If there had been another woman, somewhere in his past, that would've _had him._ Not in the physical sense – he moves far too surely to be a man untouched – but emotionally; _intimately._

My heart rejoiced when he answered in the negative. I dismissed how it began to slam in my chest at the time; it was too dangerous to focus on it. But now that I have hours upon hours to spend staring at the woods and seeing his face behind my lids, I realise that whatever it is that I feel for Severus, it began long before that night in his sitting room.

…

It becomes clearer as the days go on: I do not know him. Or rather – I do not know if the man I _knew_ is who he is at all. The slimy locket makes me think that he was acting all along; that his small displays of kindness were all to amuse himself, to take back to his Master to show just how easily he fooled Harry Potter's best friend. The locket tells me that we didn't consummate the marriage because he found me revolting – not because of lies constructed in order to keep me safe, but because my body, still finishing its development, disgusted him. I wear the chain around my neck and with each beat of my heart, it feeds me with fear and loathing for him, for Severus.

And yet, when I remove it…

When I remove it, his is the first face that comes into my mind. Not Ron's, with whom I made amends, though still he left us in the wilderness. Not Harry's, who is always my first priority. Not my parents; they are safe, and their future is out of my hands for now.

Severus is who I see and hear. I hear him berating me for allowing the Horcrux to damage me so; I hear him reminding me to eat; I hear him promising to keep himself safe; I feel his lips pressing on my forehead.

It is a strange thing, to feel such a bond with him. I do not understand it. Reports of the school come in at least weekly, of the frightening discipline, and of the dour Headmaster that oversees it all with a sneer.

I cannot wholly convince myself that he truly means what he is doing. How can he?

And if he doesn't mean it – how can he do it all _alone_?

…

For weeks, I mull it over. I pick at it endlessly, frowning off into the distance during the early hours of the morning while the boys snore inside the tent.

There's something…

Something is not right.

…

"I can't sleep. Let me keep watch tonight, and you both can get some rest."

Harry blows out a long breath and rubs his forehead. "Are you sure, 'Mione? I don't like the idea of you out here all night… You need some rest."

Ron—who has returned—mumbles an awkward agreement from the other side of the tent. "Harry's right. I should do it – it's the least I can do, after…"

This is my chance. I stand quickly and take their hands, pulling them closer until we stand in a tiny, fragile circle. Harry smiles faintly, used to my theatrics that have begun to surface since our time on the run. Ron, too, looks hopeful. "Nonsense," I tell them briskly, squeezing their hands. "I'll keep watch tonight. You two have a good night's sleep, and then I'll have a lie-in tomorrow. We need to—"

"Recharge our batteries whenever we can!" the boys – _men_ – chorus with exuberance. Heart warmed, I nod and grin.

"As you say," I direct to them both. "Now," I shake their hands, "bugger off and get to bed."

Harry mimes doffing his cap and bows. "Yes, Madam Snape!" This, too, is a running joke. It is inappropriate and entirely ridiculous, considering what they say about Severus on the radio, but if we cannot make light of things, then we will lose ourselves. The jokes have a hysterical tone about them, but it is what it is.

"Right you are, m'lady," says Ron, gallantly spreading his arms. He truly does fool me for a moment – with his plump lips and expressive eyes, he could be on the stage instead of a dingy, cramped tent.

I let out a peal of laughter – if there is a shrillness to it, neither comments – and clap my hands. "Bravo, bravo!"

They amble inside the tent, chuckling, as I continue the applause.

And then I stop.

"'Mione?"

"It's nothing!" I call, stuffing a fist into my mouth to stop the scream that will surely send me to my knees –

 _He's always been a consummate actor!_

…

I wait with bated breath until the boys' snores fill the air. Perhaps it would be prudent to mull on just why I do not feel wracked with guilt at leaving them, but I can't ignore my intuition – somebody else needs me tonight.

I just _know_ it.

I close my eyes and picture the Headmaster's sitting room – a risky endeavour, as I've only been in the office. Harry has described it to me, though, and I know where the door to enter it would be.

I have nothing to do but to try. Confidence blooms within my belly – the castle is on my side, and it will allow me to leave should I need to.

With sudden clarity and a silent prayer, I turn on my heel and disappear.

* * *

 **Part Four: The Tree**

 _"_ _Hermione!"_

Oh, _god_ —

My heart stops when a figure bursts through the door.

He is here, he is here, _he_ is _here!_

Severus is here in front of me, clad in grey pyjamas, looking tired and awful and thin and—

What have I _done?_

I am trembling in the face of his anger; it is fierce and terrifying, cutting through my skin and chilling my very bones. His mouth is distorted into a curling sneer and his eyes – his eyes are black and blank, and I cannot sense a damn thing about him.

I want to turn again and leave, flash out of sight, return to the boys, to the tent. My heart is bursting within my chest – how is it that he cannot hear it?

I whimper, and he growls, "What the _hell_ are you doing, girl? Do you even understand just how dangerous this is—" He stops and takes one step towards me. My chest heaves with the effort of containing my fear and trepidation and _excitement,_ because I have seen—

There!

 _There!_

In his eyes I see it – a flash of something – of what, I do not know, but it is _something_ and it looks like… It looks like…

He takes another step. I cannot afford not to point my wand squarely at his chest. His eyes flick to the shaking piece of wood that is aimed at his heart. Shrilly, I demand, "Are you going to hurt me? I'm s-still your _spouse,_ and the wards will let me right out of here in the next second if you are. Are you?"

He looks like hell. His cheeks are too sunken, his hair too flat, his eyes are bloodshot. As he stares at me, obsidian orbs flashing over my face and tracking every inch of my form, I realise that he looks _terrible._

It hits me as surely as if it were sliced into my very thoughts: he is all alone.

It is this that makes me press my lips together as I try not to weep; it is this that makes my wrist tremble and my aim waver; it is this, my husband, that stops my breath and halts my shock.

 _Oh, god, Severus. What have they done to you?_

Emotions flicker over his stern face. I am standing rigidly in the centre of the room; I cannot move. I will not move.

I tilt my chin up and meet his gaze, and he sighs. "No, Hermione," he says, his shoulders sagging as his legs move almost of their own accord. Two more steps bring him close enough for me to see faint patterns on the warm looking pyjamas. "I'm not… I couldn't ever… I will _not_ hurt you."

Like a dam bursting, like the water flowing over the rocks without reprieve, his words hit and wash over my soul.

 _I knew it, I knew it, I knew it._

And now that I am looking for it, I can _see_ it: in the set of his brows, in the cautious way he holds up his hands as he approaches me, in the way his eyes are documenting my horrid appearance.

I _do_ know him.

He has always been a consummate actor, yes – but not with _me._

I turn to face him; his arms are outstretched; his eyes are closed, silently pleading. With a cry of relief I fall against him and thin, pale arms fold themselves around me. The tears fall in rivulets and I release a shaking breath. Our bodies are pressed together for the very first time and I burrow my face into his chest; he rests his chin on my head and digs his fingers into my back.

It comes so softly that at first I think I have imagined it, but his arms tighten around me and I _know_ that his lips are pressing a chaste kiss to my tangled hair. The tenderness of it is close to devastating – that I should only know this _now,_ at a period that feels like it is the end of all things…

I melt into him and hear his ragged breaths. "I won't hurt you," he repeats, clutching tighter and tighter, and it feels like – it feels like—

I fit here, in his arms, as if the gods designed his chest for me alone.

…

Tink – bless him – cleans my clothes while I shower. I can hear Severus pottering around in the sitting room; inspecting my bag, no doubt. The thought brings a smile to my lips – he is not a man to sit idly, no. He is a constant man, constant in his brave, steadfast nature. It is a quiet form of bravery – there is no brashness to it. He is not a Gryffindor, after all.

On Severus, I prefer this unassuming, unwavering strength.

I finish washing quickly, studiously ignoring how the water streaming towards the drain has occasional splatters of brown and red. The physical evidence of living through a war is damning, in a way – I had walked into the shower in a cloud of careful security, having come fresh from my Professor's arms. Faced with the cold, hard proof of my living conditions over the last few months, I cower and rub my skin and hair quickly, before exiting in a hurry.

…

He is sitting in a chair by the fire, legs crossed and one socked foot peeping out from under his robes. The sight warms my chest and my eyes fill with unshed tears, though I do not understand why.

We stare at each other for a long while; I would give anything to read his thoughts.

Suddenly, the quarters feel stifling. They are unfamiliar – comforting, yes, because of his presence, but I haven't been here before and it feels jarring.

"I want to go somewhere with you," I say carefully as I measure his reaction by the light of the fire. The flames dance in his black eyes.

"Where?" he questions. "Nowhere is safe."

I laugh; it sounds strained. "I've just proved that as your legal spouse, I have the same Apparation rights as you. So we can both Apparate anywhere in the castle. Anywhere at all."

"The castle is about as safe as out there these days," he says, gesturing to the windows. "You have no idea how bad…how bad I… What I've…" He pauses and I draw breath, unable to look away from the torment on his face. Again I wonder, _who did this to you?_ "I don't want to talk anymore."

Oh, god.

My Professor…

"You don't have to. Remember, Severus – you can say whatever you want or as little as you want with me. Isn't that the point of having each other?"

"I don't think that was what the Law originally intended…"

"Ha!" I scoff, tossing damp hair over one shoulder. "No, of course it wasn't. But I know you. After all this time – I know you. And I think you're as happy as I am, happy because we're sitting here."

He cradles his head in his hands and hides his eyes from me. "I don't think the word 'happy' can be applied here, wife. What if you'd Apparated into a meeting with the Carrows? What if anyone else had seen you? And even now – suppose the Dark Lord decides to pay me a visit… I can't… I don't want you to… I can't imagine what would happen if – I _don't_ want to imagine what would happen –"

"But it won't! I'm here now, Severus!"

I cannot help it. I cross the room and kneel before him, dry-mouthed and short of breath. There is a dull pain in my chest – it _hurts_ to see him like this. I can't… I won't…

I will not bear it.

I take hold of his wrists timidly, then increase the pressure of my touch. Even though he embraced me earlier, the shock of his warm skin is enough to send my knees quivering. And then there is this flash of satisfaction, of a strange sort of pride, that he should be so concerned that he did not wish to imagine the negative possibilities that could come from my visit… Of course, it could simply be a concern for his… and there I stop with a timid smile as he raises his head. I do not wish to wonder how he might refer to me in his mind; if he names me wife, or a burden…

We are so close… I am reflected in his eyes.

And then he draws back, allowing his hair to hide his face _again._ Disappointment washes over me but somehow I sense that he doesn't need _that_ from me; it takes effort to swallow and keep my face blank without one ripple at all, but I do it.

"I'm here," I tell him. I keep his wrists imprisoned by my hands. I can feel his pulse – his heart is pounding.

His heart is…

 _Pounding._

Oh. _Oh._

And it all falls into place. His shyness, his awkwardness – his endearing hesitation, his painful timidity. His anger and concern, his protectiveness and his attempt to keep me at arm's reach.

 _'_ _You care for me,'_ I say silently, triumphantly.

And so I say, "Let's go somewhere, sweetheart."

 _Sweetheart?_ Oh, how long has it been since anyone has referred to me in such a way? Since my mother held me and rocked me back to sleep; since my father softened well-meaning reprimands with an endearment? Somehow it pours out of my mouth as naturally as if I had meant it – I hadn't, but from the way his eyes soften and widen, I have landed on something; I have understood something.

Oh, Severus…

Slowly, I reach for him. Severus is silent, watchful; his lips quiver just once, and he closes his eyes with a sigh. I lean forward and tug him to me, holding his head of black ink on my chest. I comfort him, and I _understand._ That I have needed him, that I do need him; that he needs me.

For so long he has been a quiet presence at my side, both in the castle and outside of it.

I shall do this for him.

I watch the clock, but he does not. Severus spends almost an hour in my arms; does he know it? I cannot tell. I can feel his breath ghosting over my breasts, and his fingers that keep me anchored to his body do not lose strength.

And as I felt so surely that I was made to fit within his arms, so too does _he_ fit securely between my breasts, close to my heart.

He extricates himself eventually, but at the corner of his mouth is a soft smile – whatever it is that is between us has fallen into place, and we both know it. I look at his thin lips, and feel a desire to taste them.

Distraction comes easily.

"I'll take you somewhere," he says as he stands and looks for his boots. "Let me get my cloak for you."

…

We sit together beneath a small lilac tree. He leans against the plain, short fencing that surrounds most of the fully grown plants, and I am cradled between his thighs, my back to his chest.

I can feel his heart beating, and I am trying hard not to think about all of the words that lie between us. Severus confessed that he did not wish to die – perchance for some (such as myself) this would be a given. Why wish for death? Why beckon it closer? But with him, I could never be sure… as much as I enjoyed our conversations earlier in our on-paper marriage, and as much as I know now that I feel something for him that makes my heart burn and my mouth dry, I still could not be sure if he even wanted to live at all.

What do I know, after all, about his demons and black thoughts? Wearing the locket gave me such suspicions – that he might wish to bow to Death and leave me alone without ever even having touched him – and I had to ask him. And so I did, and he took my breath away when he admitted that he has the same wish as I do: to see our efforts come to fruition. Like the tree above us, he wishes to watch our future bloom.

I am glad that we are sitting under such a beautiful tree; if I close my eyes – and I do – I can almost believe that we are new lovers, sitting in a nondescript park in a nondescript world.

I tip my head back, resting on his warm, safe chest. "The smell… all of the scents, really – but this one in particular… It's divine." Yes, divine is the word… I want to stay here forever.

"It is," he agrees quietly. His deep, baritone voice of silk comes from deep within his chest; I can feel the rumble of it as it escapes his lips.

I am aware of him now, under the lilac tree in the greenhouse, more than I have ever been. Suddenly I feel, with breathtaking clarity, that his chest is wiry but strong beneath me; that his collarbones and ribs are too pronounced but seem to cradle me perfectly. His thighs that are spread to accommodate my seated body look powerful, evidence of his commanding stride. In this new, charged atmosphere, I reach out tentatively and place my hands over his on his thighs. His heart stutters.

Carefully, I link our fingers together. I should be cringing, for my palms are damp from timidity, but instead I inwardly rejoice when he curls his fingers upwards, keeping my hands lodged in his grip.

Oh, but this is bliss. That I should find this now, in the middle of a war…

I want to push against his chest; I want to investigate him. Instead I tell him shyly about my father's lilacs, about my parents' wedding song. He throws me off guard when he admits that he does indeed know what it is to hear Nina Simone's rich voice smooth its way over _Lilac Wine,_ and the pleasant surprise makes me turn around before I even register that I may be starting something that we cannot finish. Not now, anyway.

Our banter comes with ease and flies mostly over my head. I am consumed instead by the look in his eyes, the way his gaze darts to my mouth, the way my lips are tingling. I am consumed by _want_ , which is a strange thing really, because out of everyone in the world, it should be natural to want my own husband.

But we are not natural, and we are not typical.

How far can I go? Would he accept physical affection from me? He cares for me, yes, but desire… Does he desire me?

Do I desire him?

By all the gods, I do. I _do._

And then he breaks the thick tension between us.

Severus kisses me.

It is swift and unassuming – merely the press of his mouth to mine, but the smallest hint of how he tastes, and the softness of his thin lips, drives me to chase his mouth, to push clumsily forwards, to make my intentions known.

When his calloused hands touch my cheeks and tilt my head, granting him better access to my mouth, I whimper. He steals the soft sound as his tongue sweeps into my mouth, full with the taste of him. I meet his questing tongue, sure that my movements are clumsy, unpracticed, but when he groans and his fingers begin tracing lines down my spine, confidence and desire blooms within and I find myself astride his lap.

The feel of him below me, his hands on my hips and his tongue in my mouth, is a shock – he is aroused, and I gasp, stunned that I can affect him in such a primal way. I rock my hips experimentally, seeking pleasure, and I find it with a flash of heat between my legs as we move against each other.

I swallow his groans, barely able to breathe or think or _do_ anything that doesn't involve moving over him, our mouths fused together.

It is intoxicating; it is real.

…

"I have to leave," I whisper to him later, as he holds me in quivering arms beneath the tree. His arms tighten around me and he sighs. I burrow into his neck, breathing in the scent of his skin. I am grateful for his voluminous robes that he threw over his pyjamas in his quarters – the colour is a more than adequate mask for my tears.

"I know."

"I don't want to."

Another sigh. "I know," he repeats, his voice strained.

I let out a breath and place a soft kiss on his neck. He swallows thickly. "I've missed you," I confess quietly. "I _will_ miss you."

He answers my unspoken question, then. The question that I would never ask of him, only of myself. The question of how to define my emotions, my thoughts, about this man, this husband of mine. Is it simply affection? Physical desire?

No.

For when he draws back and rests his forehead against mine, his warm breath reaching my own lips, he utters one sentence that has me undone: "And I you, Hermione."

And now, I know.

I hand him some sprigs of lilac to keep in his office. A simple gesture, but it is all I have.

When I make my turn, ready to disappear, I smile with shining eyes. He raises one hand in farewell, his lips pursed and a frown firmly set on his forehead.

 _I know how I feel about you, Severus Snape, husband of mine._

* * *

 _tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Prompt by orlando-switch –_ _a progression of Hermione's feelings in The Lilac Tree and how she came to recognise her love for Severus._

 _Thank you to the fabulous Banglabou for whipping my grammar into shape._

 _This is the last chapter – thank you to everyone who has been a part of this universe, from The Lilac Tree, to this._

* * *

 **Part 5: The Descent**

I do not see him again.

Do I? Have I seen Severus? I don't think I've seen him since that night that I went to the castle.

The castle…

Yes, I went to the castle… Of course I went to the castle…

Didn't I?

There was a man behind the Headmaster's desk, it must have been Severus, he looked just like him—

"Hermione?"

I shake my head and rub my eyes. "Sorry, Ron. What?"

He stares at me from across the table at Shell Cottage. His eyes skim over my face; he is frowning, and I instantly realise that I have done it _again._

"Where were you?" he asks under his breath.

I take a deep breath in; my fingers tremble. "Here," I say quietly, daring him to take it further. "Here. Nothing's wrong, I promise."

Ron's concerned gaze moves from my haggard face to where Bellatrix carved those letters into my skin. The new scars are tucked firmly away under my jumper, but they tingle, as if sensing his observation. "Are you sure?"

I stand and smooth damp palms down my denim covered thighs. "Of course. Come on. Let's get back to the books."

I have a secret: unfortunately, it seems that I am losing my mind.

…

"Hermione!"

"Come _on,_ Ron! We've got to get to Harry!" We are running for our lives through the halls of Hogwarts. It is madness, here – the cacophony is almost deafening, and we dodge spells as we streak along the stone floors.

The end is nigh.

"Hermione!" he shouts again, this time coming close enough to grab my arm and pull me back, closer to the shadows. "You're not… _dammit_ ," he swears, bending down so our faces are only inches apart. "Hermione," he tries, "you're not – it's not…" Ron's shoulders sag. "You can't go. You can't fight. What if _she_ finds you?"

"Then she finds me!" I exclaim, tugging on his hand to try and break his grip. I do not reach for my wand – I cannot; this is Ron, this is my brother. "This is it, Ron!" I hiss as we crouch down to avoid a wayward hex. "Nothing else matters now!"

Ron's resolve is firm. He shakes his head and draws breath. His hands move to my shoulders and out of the corner of my eye, I watch as pale, freckled fingers clamp down over my jumper. " _You_ matter," he tells me, his blue eyes bright and clear. "You matter. It's too risky. Stay here, Hermione. We're at the end, you're right, but there's nothing you or I can bloody _do_ now! It's up to Harry!"

"He needs us!"

"I know!" he cries out. "And I'll go! But _please,_ 'Mione, stay here! If you get cursed again, you won't have a hope in _hell_ of coming out good again. Think about Neville's parents!"

I crumple against him, not weeping, no, but out of sheer hopelessness. He is right, I know this, but a tiny voice whispers: ' _But what if Severus is hurt? What if you can help him? Fight beside him? Fight beside your… husband?'_ so instead I reel around and push away from Ron, ignoring his cries, and hurtling down towards the mayhem with my wand at the ready.

How long I fight, I cannot say – it feels like hours, perhaps it is only seconds.

But when it ends, it ends, and it ends with the cackle that I know all too well.

I fall into nothingness.

Nothingness—

Nothing.

…

…

…

…

There are sounds here – _where is here?_

A beep here and there; a sigh; the clinking of cutlery.

I try to toss my head; it feels like lead. I desist.

…

...

...

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I try to swirl it around, try to feel all of my teeth.

Teeth.

Teeth are important, yes?

Yes.

They must be brushed twice a day and after meals, if at all possible. At the very least, one should floss after a serving of particularly crunchy lasagne. The mince has an uncanny ability of getting stuck at the back of one's mouth, and then what does one have?

A mouth of rotting meat.

…

"Hermione?" The voice is soft and low. I know this voice. I turn my head, searching for the speaker. "Hermione…"

Everything is black.

Why?

"Hermione?"

Am _I_ Hermione?

' _Yes, yes!'_ I hear, in a sharp, almost shrill voice. _'Yes, you are Hermione! Yes! Wake up, Hermione! Now, now!'_

Somewhere within myself, I recognise that this voice is _mine._ But then, hearing voices is a sign of madness, and I'm not _mad,_ I'm just—

"Hermione," the voice says tiredly. I hear another sigh. "Wake up, sweetheart. Please – please, won't you wake up?"

 _Who_ is that?

 _Who?_

I open my mouth. I hear the creaking of a chair. I feel warm hands rubbing my arms. The man – _yes, it is a man! –_ is so close that his breath wafts over my cheek. I smell caffeine. I should remind this man to floss. "Hermione!"

 _'_ _Who are you?'_ I want to say. But then I remember that there is only one man that would be at my side if I were incapacitated.

Or perhaps…

No, I don't think so. Only one man.

"Dad?"

The man does not answer.

I think I hear him weep.

…

There is a soft and familiar female voice now. I hear it all day, every day. She never leaves.

"Good morning, Hermione," she says softly; this is always at the same time that I feel cool liquids being tipped into my mouth. "Swallow, please." I do. "You're doing well," she tells me.

I believe her.

Yes, I am doing well, aren't I?

 _'_ _Yes, you are. Not long now, and you can go home.'_

But where _is_ home? Do I have one?

…

"Any changes overnight?"

"No, sir. She hasn't woken at all—"

"She did. She said: 'Dad'. She called me 'Dad'. She tossed her head and called me—"

"I know what she said, sir."

"She doesn't know me at all, does she?"

"I think it's too early to worry about that. Let her awaken first."

"What if she doesn't know me at all? What then?"

"Then we'll deal with that when we come to it, sir. One step at a time. Now – come to the staff room, and I'll put the kettle on."

…

The first time he comes to me, I turn my head away. "Piss off." _'What is_ that? _What sort of language is that? How dare you speak to a Professor with such language!'_

"He killed Professor Dumbledore! He shouldn't even be _alive!_ " I hiss at myself as I stare with narrowed eyes at the black-haired man in the doorway. He is watching me, his face blank.

A thought comes to me, and I relish in spitting, "He doesn't even like my _teeth!_ Poncy, whey-faced bastard!"

 _'_ _Jesus Christ,_ you _don't even like your teeth!'_

I do not understand why Professor Snape's endless eyes shine when I mention my teeth. And when he runs a hand over his face and smiles, I huff. " _What?_ "

"You remember," he answers. "You remember what I said about your teeth."

"Piss off."

He looks uncomfortable. "May I come in?"

"No."

Another thing I do not understand: why does his face crumple when I deny him?

Why do I _care?_

Git.

…

"Oh, god." _Oh, god. Oh god, ohgodohgodohgod—_

"Hermione!" He tosses down a small stack of parchments and hastens to my side. I am shaking; _how long have I been here?_

"Is – is—" _Oh, god, what if we lost? Where is Harry? Ron? But Severus is alive!_ "You're alive!"

Severus reaches for me tentatively. His hands touch mine, and I look down at them; from here, lying in the hospital bed, our skin is the same shade of sickly white. Why? "How long have I been here? What's going on? Severus?"

 _Why does he look so sad?_

"This is the first time you've—" He swallows thickly, his eyes firmly fixed on our hands, then he meets my gaze again. The familiar frock coat looks slightly wrinkled, and it makes me smile. Has he slept here? Has he been waiting for me?

And then I close my eyes, _remembering._

He is mine; this man is _mine._ Mine, mine. _Oh, mine!_

"Oh," I breathe in wonder, staring at his lips, remembering when we kissed underneath a tree – _what tree was it? –_ and he lets out a short, "Ah!" of disbelief.

Our gazes stay connected for a long time. He opens and closes his mouth, searching for words, and I feel—

I feel…

"Do you remember? Do you remember when I kissed you?"

 _'_ _Do you remember when he kissed you? Do you?'_

 _Yes!_

 _What?_

A kiss?

With—

 _Snape?_

Horror bubbles within my belly, and I howl with _disgust._ Red mist falls around my eyes. I want to be—I'm going to be—

"Get out! Get out, _getoutgetoutgetoutgetout!_ Help!" I scream, scrambling out of the bed, looking for my wand but my wand isn't – it's not –

Lavender – _Lavender? Lavender Brown?_ – comes running into the room and tosses one concerned glance towards the Professor, who is sitting on the chair beside the bed, hunched over himself. His long hair hides his face – _good!_

"Hermione?" Lavender approaches me slowly, one hand hidden behind her back.

"Where is my _wand!_ "

She looks relieved – _the bitch has my wand, I'm sure of it! –_ and turns again to Snape, who merely shrugs. I scowl at her; all she does, in her disgusting grey robes, is smile benignly. "Hermione," says Lavender, "why don't we go through your homework schedule? I believe there are some new books here." She pats a pile on a small table near the Professor. He is staring at his feet. "Would you like to see what we have?"

 _Oh._

That would be nice.

And that's funny—

"Hullo, Professor Snape," I say politely, edging towards the books. He looks at me sharply, and then relaxes in the chair.

"Good morning, Miss Granger," he returns blandly, his eyes tracking my hands as they trace the spines of the books. "How are you feeling today?"

"Well, sir. Although…"

"Although?" he prompts, waving one hand vaguely towards the door. There is a faint tap-tap-tap as Lavender's heels take her out of the room.

"I _am_ wondering why you're here, sir," I admit.

Again he stares, as if he were looking right into my very soul. We have not been alone in such close quarters before; I find myself returning his gaze, shifting on my feet when his black eyes soften. He looks… he looks… There is a tenderness about him, and it makes me wonder just how on earth Professor Snape came to wear such a face, and who on earth inspired it.

Something else I do not know: _why do I feel envious of the woman that gives him this softness, this fondness?_

Lucky cow.

He clears his throat and stands. "I am delivering your assigned readings, Miss Granger."

"Oh. That's rather nice of you." _'_ _It is. Why is he being nice to you? Has he ever been nice to you? I rather think he's a bit of a prick, actually. Do you remember when he threw Ron down the stairs?'_ "You didn't throw Ron down the stairs."

"Excuse me?"

 _'_ _He did, he did! And he choked the life out of him – his greasy hands, touching Ron, now giving you_ books _!'_

I back away. "Leave," I demand, searching for anything, anywhere, an escape route—something! "Leave!" I cover my eyes and retreat blindly to a corner, any corner – " _Leaveleaveleaveleave!_ "

…

"Do you have a favourite colour, Hermione?"

"Lilac," I answer immediately. "Lilac. I like it. Lilac."

"Any particular reason?"

 _Is there?_

 _There might be…_

 _But…_

"No."

"All right."

…

The next time Lavender comes to check if I am still sans a few sheep in the top paddock, she is wearing lilac robes.

"Nice," I observe, reaching out with two fingers to feel the soft material. "I like lilacs."

"Do you remember why?" she whispers kindly, setting her clipboard down and picking up a brush to start working on my short hair.

I exhale as she begins her work; her hands are deftly moving through the knotted curls. "No," I mumble, arching towards her touch. "Should I?"

"We'll work on it."

I fancy that I hear sadness in her voice.

…

I open my eyes.

It is dark.

I am alone.

"Severus?" I whisper into the night air, squinting in the darkness. It was the strangest dream – that I was stuck in St. Mungo's, having tea with Alice Longbottom. She gave me a paper cup full of sweet wrappers. Very strange, indeed… perhaps I should call Tink and go and see if Severus is downstairs. He'd be marking, still, I am sure of it…

"Tink?"

Nothing.

My mouth is dry.

"Severus?"

He does not answer.

He is not here.

…

I wake to find a cup of crinkled sweet wrappers beside my bed. I smile and brush my hair. I think I shall visit Alice today.

…

"Good morning, Professor! Isn't it a lovely day outside?"

"Morning, Miss Granger. It's rather glorious."

"You're so positive when you visit me, sir. I wish you'd show this side of you to the rest of the students. They'd love to see it. It's a real treat."

"Yes… I'm sure that they would adore it. But I don't think that I will."

"Oh. That's a pity, sir. You know, perhaps it's for the best. You can't really control students who are working with volatile ingredients when they're all batting their lashes at you now can you?"

"Ah… no. Why would they be batting their lashes, Miss Granger?"

"Well, you're quite handsome, you see. Don't scowl, it's true. You're striking. Not conventionally attractive, but certainly arresting. You'd wreak havoc on the seventh years if you showed them you were charming, too."

"I am most definitely not charming."

"True, true. That was the wrong word to use. Hmm… witty? Yes. You're quite witty. Arresting and witty – an interesting combination."

"Miss Granger - are you quite all right?"

"Oh – good morning, Professor! Sorry. I don't have time for another extra study session with you today, though I am very appreciative of your efforts in helping me with the private tutoring. Could we perhaps reschedule? I have this pressing assignment, you see – I need to work on translating these medieval texts. My Potions professor thought it would be a good idea. So I'll need to give the extra DADA revision a miss for the day."

"Of course. Do you mind if I work here while you do your research? I have some marking to complete."

"It's much the same to me if you stay or go."

"All right… I shall be here on the couch if you require assistance."

"I assure you, I am quite capable. You do not need to coddle me. Why are you here again? Isn't this inappropriate, a teacher in a student's private room?"

"Quite."

"Then aren't you going to leave?"

"In a moment."

…

"Oh, god, Severus…" I drop the heavy book and moan; it is a wretched, hopeless sound. Like a wailing, Mediterranean grandmother. [Mary1] [AMM2] [AMM3] My husband sets his marking down on the couch and moves to sit on the bed; he is awkward, perched on the lilac covering – _oh, the tree!_ – but it endears him to me even more. My constant, steadfast husband. Mine. My own.

 _Oh, mine._

Horrified, I take in his new wrinkles; the paleness of my skin. I try to speak, but my tongue feels too _thick_ and I need to _know—_

"Two years, eleven months and fifteen days, sweetheart," he tells me, his baritone voice gentle.

I groan and cover my face, sure that if I am alive, that if it has been _so long,_ then _everyone else—_

"It will be all right, Hermione. The Longbottom trial is days away. It's promising."

 _Longbottom? Neville? Neville Longbottom has created a… Neville Longbottom is helping to_ fix _me?_

"It must be terrible if you're telling me that Neville Longbottom has created something promising," I say and he laughs, a strained, painful sound. His arms come around me and I fall into him, sighing and crying and sobbing because—

"I'm sorry to have done this to you, Severus. I never wanted to tie you down. Not ever." _And let God be my witness – I never wanted this! How could I have been so stupid? How could I do this to him?_ I cry louder, ashamed for my thoughts, my ungratefulness.

"You haven't. You are my wife, Hermione. No matter whether it is solely on paper or not. I will take care of you until you order me away." His arms are firm and warm and I burrow my face into his neck. He smells of soap and sharpness – that strange, unearthly tang that permeates the air in the dungeons.

"Then I w-"

"No," he says clearly, "not like this. You need me. Stop being so self-sacrificing. It is what it is, and I am here. When this ends, you may… decide what it is you wish to do."

"I just want you to be free. I can't bear to think of you like this, tied to someone when you had no real choice. Tied to me."

"Hush," Severus orders. "Do not speak of it. These are the cards that we have been dealt. Give it time."

It is mortifying, this helplessness. I fumble for words and latch onto a distant memory.

"I had a dream last night…"

"Oh?" He tenses.

"It was…" _Oh, god, I'm losing it. I'm losing it. A dream, merely a dream, and I'm already forgetting—_

 _No!_

With flushed cheeks, I hide my embarrassment. His frock coat aids me, the blackness swallowing the debilitating thoughts that come with almost forgetting a simple dream. I cannot afford to be shy; I wind my arms around his body and sigh when I feel him shift to take me into his lap.

Oh, gods… Oh, but I have wanted this, needed this…

My fingers curl into his austere clothes; his armour.

"I dreamt that… that the war was over, and you took me away from everything. You kept me safe."

"Me?"

"Yes…" Would it make him angry? To know that I _do_ care? To know that I wake in the middle of the night sometimes and feel his lips upon mine? The air between us is fragile, and I breathe out, sinking into his hold. This is the way we should be: as we were under the tree – _lilac! It was a lilac tree!_ – and as we are now. But I am scared, now, to ask him to keep me always… I am a burden. "Does that bother you?"

"Should it?"

"I don't want it to…"

"Then it doesn't. It doesn't bother me at all."

…

"Hermione?"

"Yes, Severus?"

"I would do that."

"Hmm? Do what?"

"Take you away; keep you safe. I'll do it. When this is over, if that's what you want, I'll do it."

My stomach rolls. "Do what, Professor? What are you talking about? What are you even doing here? Get out! I despise you and your forked tongue – you have no right to be here! Out! Now! That's right – leave, leave! You're a coward, Snape. Always hiding behind your big, bullying ways. Get out! Off you go. That's the way. Don't let the door hit you on the way out."

…

There is another trial. Apparently there have been others before it.

It will fix my mind.

There's _nothing wrong_ with my mind.

…

Lavender tries to pour the potion down my throat; I thrash and whimper, searching for a man in dark clothes – _who is he? Will he save me? Come and save me! –_ but there is no one. I want my parents.

I want my mother.

Dad?

And I want—

 _Him._

 _Who is 'him'?_

 _I don't know._

"You're all right, Hermione," a male voice states from the other side of the bed. "You're all right. I've got you – we're here."

Yes, but who is _we?_

"Who _are_ you?" I beg him to answer, thinking that perhaps this is Death; He is coming to claim me after all.

I close my eyes, accepting my fate.

"I'm Neville," Death says. "Neville Longbottom. I'm going to take care of you, Hermione. It will be well."

I giggle, and the sound is completely inappropriate. Why? This is another thing that I do not know, but it just _seems_ as though I should not be laughing _now._

But it's funny, really, that Death should choose to call himself such a name.

"Neville," I say, sounding out the name. "Hmm." I hear Death chuckle. "Interesting choice." _'_ _That's the way. If you're going out, do it with a bang.'_ "It's a bit bland, don't you think?"

He laughs and says, "Close your eyes, Hermione. Let go. I've got you."

And I do.

…

I swim in the darkness; bright colours flash behind my closed lids. Sometimes they burn me with brightness, and other times I feel… cold.

Someone is missing, I think…

I know…

Do I?

…

There is a low voice… it is rich and deep, like the bottom of the ocean, like digging through the sand at the beach and finding water at the bottom of the hole.

I swim within it; I lose myself within the sound.

…

Is this what dying feels like?

If it is, I do not want it.

 _I want to go back._

 _I want—_

Severus?

 _'_ _Yes, you want Severus. Ask for Severus. Demand that he come to you.'_

 _'_ _Yes, yes, but who is Severus?'_

…

I think, if I should wake, that I will find someone waiting for me, and I think that it is—

…

…

…

There are more voices now; many. They are whispering.

Honestly, how _rude!_

…

I can hear Lavender muttering under her breath. I groan and turn over, punching the pillow. "Cast a Silencing charm, for goodness' sake!" I tell her shrilly. "Some of us are trying to sleep!"

And Parvati should chime in right about now, exclaiming just how _annoying_ I am, for interrupting her sleep, when really it was bloody Lavender talking in her dreams like she always does.

But Parvati does not say a word.

Curious.

…

I burrow further into the blankets when someone prods my arm. "Lavender, _please_ ," I beg, "it's still dark! I was in the library until eleven, so could you please just stop waking me _up—"_

 _Oh._

 _No!_

 _Oh._

 _Oh, oh, oh, oh._

 _Severus!_

…

I open my eyes and scream.

* * *

 **Part 6: Knowledge**

Instruments poke and prod; a light shines into my eyes; Lavender's wand moves furiously above my body as she casts spell after spell. The runes are almost too bright for me to concentrate on, and so I don't. I am at a loss when she gasps and gives an unprofessional _whoop._

Unprofessional?

I frown and push my thin body up on my elbows. "Lavender?"

The face that turns to me is the same, though I do not recognise the calm, mature eyes. I know her, and I do not know her. On the surface, I recall her as easily as if I have just seen her, fending off Greyback and throwing herself back into the fighting. But simmering under the surface, suddenly I am able to grasp that she is _someone else._ She means something else to me now, and—

" _You!_ " I point one undignified finger at her chest. "You-you—" What do I want to say? I don't know how to put it into words, this natural recognition that I have for _Lavender Brown,_ of all people, but all she does is blow out a noisy breath, wave at her face to stave off tears, and smile with wobbly lips.

"Me," she says simply. "Yes – me."

"You… and me? Here?" At this, she casts another diagnostic spell; I crane my neck and see that she is checking my brain and whether the diagrams light up in the right places to show that I can, in fact, speak. I bristle and huff. "I'm all _right."_

 _And I am,_ I realise. I'm all right. I'm here; Lavender Brown is here; I _must be all right._

A smile spreads itself upon my lips; my heart picks up until it is thrumming, taking flight. "I'm all right!" I exclaim, voice quivering. "I'm all right."

"You are." Lavender takes a moment and sits down heavily on the bed. I roll over with effort and use my hands to guide me into a sitting position beside her.

"I don't remember anything else," I tell her quietly, leaning close. Instinctively, I know that I can trust her, that she is _on my side._ I look at the other Healers with suspicion as they bustle in and out. "Won't you… Will you tell me what on _earth_ is going on?"

She turns to me and takes my hand. "Tell me the last thing you remember, Hermione. The very last thing."

"I remember… I remember…" I cast around, searching… "I remember…" My head _aches,_ but still I… "Ron!"

Lavender snorts, and I wonder who this woman really is – this dry, sarcastic woman. Where is my bubbling roommate? "Ron?" she asks, having returned to Healer-mode. "And what happened in the memory?"

Now that I have it, I can feel my frustration and anger and sinking understanding as I recall the moment when he asked me not to fight. "He told me to… ah," I sigh, shaking my head. "He told me not to fight. He _knew—"_

"Oh," she dismisses, making a sharp wave with her hand. "No one _knew._ Ron suspected, but no one knew _for sure._ " Later, she will tell me of speaking to anyone and everyone who saw me after the Manor as she tried to get a hold on whatever had a hold on _me_ , but for now I accept her unassuming authority.

Her words sink into my skull. I ponder them, taking them apart, analysing the inflection of her voice. Lavender is speaking as if… She almost sounds like… "You're speaking of it as if it happened a long time ago," I comment, making a mental note to investigate whether she has a staff member above her and whether they might be more appropriate to speak to at the moment. "How long has it been?" She watches me silently, one thin eyebrow arched. She measures my strangled gasp and the furrow of my brow. "Weeks?" I ask, hardly able to breathe. I throw myself off the bed and search for a mirror – somehow I know that a mirror will tell me. But there aren't any sharp surfaces here; a rather chilling discovery. I whirl around and clap my hands to my mouth. " _Months?_ "

I can't—

I won't—

 _Oh, I just want—_

Lavender stands and clears her throat, but I cut her off with a frantic, "S-Severus! Where is he? Is he—"

 _Oh god, is he dead? Is Severus dead? Has he died?_

 _Is what why he's not—_

No, no.

I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, remembering the feel of his arms around me; his comforting voice as he murmured endearments; his fingers as they traced circles on my back. I feel him as acutely as I feel my hysteria, my confusion; he will anchor me, I _know_ it.

And besides…

There is no one else.

 _"_ _It isn't that!"_ I shout into the air, used to chastising and yelling at myself; it takes me only an instant to understand that perhaps this is why I've been in here for so long…

How long is long?

"Bring him to me," I demand, moving away from Lavender, back to the bed. "Bring him. I won't—not without—bring Severus. Bring him."

Her lips give a tiny twitch. It's as if she is _approving_ my petulance, although I can't think of why Lavender Brown would be agreeing with my mad outburst to contact my—

More Healers come into the room, attracted by my raised voice. They watch me, breathing rapidly – like dogs, I think viciously. Like predators.

I decide then that I am not safe – not without him.

He is the only one I want.

He is the _only one._

Mine.

 _Oh, mine… Oh…_

"So, to confirm, Hermione," Lavender says briskly, cutting off my spinning thoughts. "You'd like us to contact your next of kin before proceeding any further?" Her left eye closes for a minute, then reopens.

Did she just—

Did Lavender Brown just _wink_ at me?

Smart.

"Yes," I say clearly, glaring at the whispering staff members. "I want my husband."

 _Oh, I want my husband…_

…

I wait for hours – or it feels like hours. It could be minutes from when Lavender orders everyone out and gives me one last nod as I ease down onto the bed and curl up on my side. I sleep, slipping into it so easily that when I hear the door open again, it feels like I have merely blinked and had a tiny little dream.

…

The room is dark; it is near dawn. The door creaks again. "I told you, I don't want anyone to be here unless it's my husband. Severus Snape is my husband, and if you don't get him, then I'm not going anywhere." I am doing my best to seem haughty and utterly pissed off, but my throat is sore from crying and from the way the visitor pauses, it is clear that my intentions are irrelevant.

The floor complains in one soft squeak. My body tenses; there is a faint charge to the air, an electric note, that I think I should recognise—

"Hermione?"

 _You!_

 _Oh,_ you _!_

 _It_ is _you!_

The sound of his voice makes me gasp and moan; I recognise Severus and it is _painful_ because—oh, because, because—

My shaking legs find their way over the bed. My feet hit the floor.

And with one silent and sharp intake of breath at the man standing in the shadows, his body tense and his eyes shining in the blackness, I throw my body into the air.

…

I am alive.

I am alive, and I am here.

 _He_ is alive! My anchor; my hope; my… _oh, mine…_

Severus—my husband, my protector, my Professor, my very own _everything—_ stands before me, his mouth opening and closing, his watery eyes running over my face, my nightgown-glad body, my own quivering lips.

I can hardly believe that he is real. To look at him—to truly look at him, to truly _see—_ is near blinding.

My hands lift into the air, searching, seeking, looking for hard evidence.

Proof. I need _proof._ I need to _believe_ that it is over; that he is here with me, now and always.

My questing fingers make contact with his soft, ivory skin. His cheeks are flushed and my heart races as I feel him, solid under my touch. Oh, how I have wanted this, needed this…

One single tear snakes down the left side of Severus' face. I follow it with my eyes, then dare to swipe at it with one fingertip. His mouth opens; his tongue wets his thin lips.

I have the tear. Here, with me, I have it. His tear. The proof that he is present – that this is not a dream.

When I bring my finger to my lips and taste the salty liquid, he gasps though he does not know it – he is transfixed; his mouth is slack.

And let all the gods be my witness, because he has _found me._

"You came for me," I whisper reverently, returning my palms to his warm cheeks. He swallows thickly and bends down until our faces are level. I want to kiss him – to drink him in, to feel him within me, to lose myself… But he is dishevelled and exhausted, this much I can clearly see, and so I swallow his words instead.

"I-I did."

He is disbelieving, and I resolve to bring back and repair his broken faith. I feel determination blooming inside of my stomach. I can—I _will_ do this for him.

"Severus Snape," I tell him without hesitation.

He sighs and nods, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening. I run my fingers over them, revelling in the trusting way he closes his eyes again. "Hermione," he counters, joining with me in this strange little game, "Hermione Gr—"

I scowl and cover his lips with my fingers. "No," I protest, brooking no argument. No – this is us and this is _now._ This is who we are and I shall give him happiness; I shall give him everything.

"Hermione Snape," I say firmly, my voice catching at the look of wonder, of painful hope, in his bright black eyes.

 _I am Hermione Snape,_ I think to myself as I bite my lip and smile at the man who anchors me to life, _and I love you._

* * *

 _fin._


End file.
